


Angel of Music

by sophiedokidoki



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beleriand, First Age, First Time, Freeform, M/M, Rated E for later chapters, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tirion, baby's first fic, impossible travel, repost, tinfang GAYlion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-02-21 23:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13154658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiedokidoki/pseuds/sophiedokidoki
Summary: In which Maglor loses his flute, falls in love, and is whisked away to further pursue music under none other than Daeron of Doriath.Or,When Maglor is a new and upcoming musician in Tirion, Daeron has been performing for Thingol in Doriath for years alongside his partner, Tinfang Gelion. After an unexpected duet together, Daeron realises they make a good team and urges Maglor to continue studying music under his own teachings in Doriath.





	1. Angel, I Hear You

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time to post my work so please be patient with me! I hope it's not too bad . The title of the story is from a song from the phantom of the opera by Andrew Lloyd Webber.
> 
> Also, I just wanted to say that I posted this originally almost a year ago, but then deleted it because I honestly wasn't in a stable enough place to be writing a story that I was passionate about at that time. I actually didn't think I'd ever post this fic (or any other, for that matter) ever again. Lately, though, I haven't been able to get this fic off my mind so I'm going to post it and stick with it, for real this time. I'm also sorry if this is a bit short, I'm already working on chapter 2 so I'll try to get it out asap!

Of course Maglor would forget his flute the day _of_  the concert. He curses himself, curses the stupid damned concert, licks his lips as he takes an empty wine glass from a nearby table and taps it with a fork to get the audience's attention. The hall falls silent as each individual settles down into their seats. He struggles to force a calm facade, fingers slick with nervous sweat as he pushes a jet-black curl behind his ear. 

"Good evening, everyone. I regret to announce that there cannot be a performance tonight. I...I..."  He pauses to swallow thickly, eyes skirting skittishly across the crowd. He sees his mother, who gives him a strained, sympathetic smile, and his father, who is giving him a deadpan unimpressed look that makes Maglor want to jump out of one of the perfect stained-glass windows that adorns that Tirion concert hall's walls. 

"I just so happened to misplace my flute."

Groans along with the occasional "boos" echo across the hall. Maglor flushes, damp fingers clenching as he berates himself internally, wishes he had double checked his bags before rushing out the door for the party. He's never done anything as silly and stupid as this and he hates himself. He dares himself to glance at his parents' reactions and immediately regrets it when he sees Fëanor's face in his hands and Nerdanel with her fingers over her mouth, not meeting his eyes and looking away embarrassed. Maglor grinds his teeth as the protests continue to resonate. When he sees a trickle of people starting to leave, he panics even more, feels his pulse quicken and his eyes get hot and oh how he wishes that he had just checked the Valar damn  _bag_ -

When all of a sudden, someone stands up amidst the awry-gone audience and claps their hands, jolts Maglor out of his stupor and shuts every last person up. Maglor squints across the hall, attempts to make out who it is to no avail. All he manages to see is that the figure is tall and willowy and that their hair is long and lank and hangs in their eyes. The object they hold in one hand glints in the soft lighting of the lamps lit from above. The crowd is completely silent as they open their mouth to speak.

"My Lord Makalaurë, there is no need to cancel the concert, for I, Daeron of Doriath, just so happen to know  _exactly_ where my flute is."

Maglor leans forward in fear that he perhaps misheard the claim. He suddenly feels very dizzy and licks his dry lips. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I may not be in my right mind at the moment, and may have misunderstood what you said. Did you say Daeron of Doriath?  _The_ Daeron of Doriath?"

There is no way Daeron would  _ever_ come to see one of his concerts. He is too famous and renown, too good to attend one of Maglor's small Tirion concerts. And anyway, he has just started to perform music recently in the last year. Why would Daeron travel so far to listen to an amatuer? Especially one who can hardly keep their wits together and forgot their  _instrument_ of all things on the very day they need it most?

The older minstrel smirks from down in the audience, moves to shift his weight as he puts a hand on his hip.

"Pardon me, Lord Makalaurë, but it is already quite obvious that you have also misplaced your  _head_. There is but one Daeron of Doriath, as far as I am concerned, and he is me."

The audience chuckles at Daeron's wit, and it fills Maglor with raw humiliation and shame as he flushes again, cheeks hotter than ever. He purses his lips as he crosses his arms, eyes flashing. Struggling to regain his composure, he stammers out,

"I...I was merely shocked to discover your attedence! How was I to know the greatest minstrel in all the land would arrive tonight? You've certainly never shown up before. Anyway, if you have interest in saving this concert at all, you should at least get up here on the stage before the night ends, unless you just intend to mock me in front of everyone even more."

Daeron grins again, chuckling wryly to himself. "Alright, alright, I'm coming. There's no need to fire yourself up about the delay; I'm afraid your little dilemma has already postponed the concert quite enough!"

More laughter erupts from the crowd and Maglor has to bite his tongue to prevent it from slipping into an angry slew of curses. He snatches the flute from Daeron as he passes, shoves some music in his face and blows out through his lips as he just manages to regain composure of himself. He raises the flute, and his fingers slip on its burnished wood as his first note wobbles out wan and trembling. Hardly a good start, but then Daeron starts to  _sing_. So much for Maglor's one man show, but he is immediately thankful for the minstrel beside him, because his voice saves him. When he sings, his voice sounds rich and deep and lustrous, not taunting and light and ridiculous as it had seemed when he had mocked Maglor. The difference is appalling. And the singing is godly, looping over the lyrics perfectly and sliding in time with the flute. The words and the music meld and flow and twist together and Daeron sings as if the song were written for him, lyrics moulded perfectly to the sound of his voice. He sings with an unsurpassable passion that Maglor has never seen or experienced before and it stirs something in him, makes him long for it in his own music like nothing else. By the time the concert is over he is aching all over, breathing shallow and mouth dry and legs wobbly as he takes a bow amidst the applause. He gives Daeron the flute with a shaking hand, eyes widening in his paling face as Daeron leans very close to whisper,

"Good job tonight, Lord Makalaurë."

Maglor dips his head in thanks as Daeron pulls away, eyes flicking to his. "Likewise. I...I've never heard a voice quite so beautiful. You truly are as great as they say."

Daeron thanks him, and then there is an awkward moment of silence. All Maglor can hear are the sounds of people filing out of the concert hall or staying behind to speak with companions, and as he eyes Daeron,  _really_ looks at him, he notices things like how glossy his long hair is in the lights, and how fair his skin is. His cheekbones are high and a soft flush is there, and the curve of his lips are very inviting, and he suddenly hears himself blurt out rather awkwardly and in a rush,

"I don't think we make a bad team."

Daeron smiles at him, dark brown eyes brightening and crinkling and affectionate, much to Maglor's surprise.

"I don't think so either. There is still a lot that perhaps you should learn, but I can't say I wouldn't quite enjoy to accompany you again. You have great potential, more than I've seen in anyone in a long time. It's refreshing to see someone as young as you so passionate about music."

Maglor feels his face heat up at the compliment and opens his mouth to reply when a tall, slender man sidles up to Daeron. His eyes are piercing and pale and both the hair on his head and chin are strikingly silver. 

"I have to say, I was very impressed with your performance tonight, Lord Makalaurë." The man says, nodding at Maglor. Maglor bows his head, replies,

"Thank you very much sir. And you are?"

"Tinfang Gelion of the Great Lands."

Maglor's eyebrows shoot up on his forehead as his mouth parts in awe. He has heard many tales and lore surrounding Tinfang, the famed flutist who was half elf and half fay, whose music controlled the stars, but he didn't know he was here, and he certainly didn't know he knew  _Daeron._

"It is an honour to have you here, and I am even more grateful to know that you enjoyed my music! Thank you so very much for coming!"

The silver haired minstrel offers him a small smile. "You're welcome, but thank Daeron and Daeron alone. He insured me that I wouldn't regret it, and he was right. You are quite good for someone of your age. Perhaps we will come and see you again, and maybe then we will all play together."

Maglor watches as Tinfang nudges Daeron and beams at him, before wishing the two a good night and thanking them again and leaving the hall with a strange twinge in his stomach that feels something like jealousy.

As he is finally laying in bed that night, his mind spins in wonder as he thinks on the concert and the music and the singing and, most of all, on how annoyingly beautiful Daeron of Doriath is and sounds. When dreams come to him they are of a honeyed voice, a flash of dark hair, and inviting lips, all which are elusive and mysterious and leave him longing for more.


	2. Speak, I Listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys I'm sorry if this chapter sounds really dry! it's just because I'm still setting up the plot and stuff and because i wanted to really focus on the affect Daeron has had on Maglor. also I started school again and so that's made my schedule kinda hectic. please be patient with me! Because there'll be a lot more character interaction between Maglor and Daeron in the next chapter ;) hope you somewhat enjoy!

He doesn’t stop thinking about Daeron afterwards.

When Maglor writes music, he tries to do it the way he thinks the older minstrel would, with lyrics full of passion and the music written low and sultry in a way that would make anyone’s heart throb. His music gains more popularity once he starts writing, singing, and playing the way he knows Daeron does. He soon becomes a Tirion favourite, and constantly is requested to perform at parties and balls, including the ones hosted by his father. Overall, Maglor is thankful for the recognition and adoration, but he still feels his music has not reached its potential, and he doesn’t think he plays as good as he’d _like_. So he tries meddling with different instruments. He becomes most proficient with the harp, even more so than he ever was with the flute, and the people love him for it. And they adore his risqué lyrics and warm, seductive melodies, but it’s not enough for Maglor. He wants what Daeron has. He wants the unsurpassable passion and the magic and Valar damn golden voice that he has. (Hell, he may even want Daeron himself, but he hates to linger on thoughts like that for too long.) And he knows the only way to get it is from the source itself.

The issue with that is that he doubts he’ll ever see him again. Maglor doesn’t even know if Daeron ever attended another concert of his after the fateful duet. Ever since it happened he always makes sure to eye the crowd carefully just in case he might spot him, but, unfortunately, he hasn’t seen him since. He feels absolutely stupid and juvenile wishing that _the Daeron of Doriath_ would travel so far to hear one of his still nowhere near as renown concerts again, because Daeron is spectacular and amazing at what he does and Maglor knows that even if he tries as hard as he can to reach the top, he will never surpass Daeron. He’s not good enough and never will be so why would Daeron even _care_?

In a weird way, he misses him. Months pass by and Maglor wishes he could just glance him once, see a stripe of that dark hair or a swish of his Telerin robe. He wishes they could have talked longer the night that they played together, wishes they could have spoken of music and lyricism and other things too, like how Daeron keeps his hair so shiny or of what it is like to live in Doriath and what the food and the elves are like there. Maglor hates the longing that he feels and notices that it starts to bleed into his music, taint the tunes and the words and gnarls them into songs of lust and impatience and dissatisfaction in general. He also feels like he has hit a wall in terms of becoming a better musician. He has taught himself all that he can and has focused on improving everything he can think of, but there is only so much you can learn on your own, after all. He wonders how Daeron became so unbelievably _good._ He becomes jealous of Daeron’s talent, hates that his music’s beauty is limited, when Daeron’s is always increasingly developing and getting better and better with each performance. More than anything, Maglor wishes he could just reach out to Daeron and tell him how badly he wants to know the secret to his passion and motivation, the secret to his godliness and remarkable talent. He just wants a push in the right direction so he knows how he can move on with his musical career from here. But Daeron never attends another concert, or writes a letter, or stops to visit. And so Maglor starts to participate at parties more than he actually holds performances. He drinks a lot with his brothers and dances to the new music made by the musicians who replace him, and plays pranks on pretty women (and men) and quits writing music and singing and playing instruments altogether. Maglor tries to convince himself that if he stops pursuing music he will also eventually forget Daeron. He tries to shake everything off, but he finds the more he tries the harder it becomes to forget.

 

***

 

One night, Maglor finally gets confronted about his change in behavior.

Fëanor is hosting a ball. He asks Maglor if he’d like to perform a few weeks in advance, but Maglor quickly replies with a prompt “no” and stands firm with his answer. Come the night of the party, Maglor is suddenly very aware of the fact that he is completely and wholly alone. Even his brothers think him ill company at this point. Maedhros is off talking to Fingon somewhere, Celegorm is in a corner feeling up some girl he’s never seen before, and Caranthir and Curufin are trying to start a food fight. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about what his parents are doing; they’ve been going on and on about possibly adding a new addition into the family, and just recalling the looks on their faces when they had shared the news makes him want to curl up into a ball and die. He takes a sip of his third (or fourth) glass of wine and thinks about Daeron. He does it out of sheer habit now, drinking and thinking of that Valar damned musician; Maglor finds the two actions are inevitably linked and there is absolutely not one thing he can do about it. Thinking about it wears at his nerves, so he takes his glass and wanders off to watch the dancing. He sees Maedhros’ eyes glued to Fingon’s backside while he dances with his younger sister Aredhel, and Maglor almost chokes on his wine at the sight. He abruptly decides he does not want to watch the dancing anymore and leaves the hall to go outside to the balcony. The air is a warm, humid caress against his skin, and the combined glow of Telperion and the stars laces the sky with silver. He breathes in the pungency of lavender as he gazes out into the city of Tirion, trying desperately to take his mind off of the one subject it can never leave. And suddenly he feels a warm hand on the back of his shoulder and swings around, mouth agape, robes swishing ridiculously and wine sloshing from out of his glass and onto the cream coloured bodice of his mother.

She raises her eyebrows at him, obviously concerned, and he moves his lips, tries to form an apology and fails miserably. He’s about to pull out a handkerchief from a pocket in his robe when she yanks him into a breathless hug. She rubs his back lovingly, tells him in his ear, “We need to talk.”

He simply nods for lack of breath, or words, for that matter.

 

***

 

They go to the courtyards to walk amongst the trees; it was always one of Maglor’s favourite places to play as a child, and the environment here is still one that he enjoys to this day.

Nerdanel tucks a hair behind her ear, says, “So…when did this all start, Makalaurë? You’ve seemed so down lately, and you haven’t been yourself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, and don’t try to deny it.”

Maglor swallows, eyes focusing on putting one foot in front of the other instead of meeting hers. “It all started when I sang the duet. With-with Daeron.”

There is a short moment of silence, sans the sound of crickets chirping, until she further implores,

“And?”

He suddenly stops walking, runs an anxious hand through his ruffled black curls. His eyebrows furrow and blue eyes flash as they turn to hers.

“I’m in a rut,” he tells her, suddenly breathless for a reason he can’t fathom.

“I’m in a rut because I don’t think I can teach myself anymore. My music is good, but not good enough. I need an instructor if I want to develop my skills any further.”

His mother nods but gives him an odd look as she asks, “What does this have to do with Daeron?”

Maglor sighs deeply, lets his face fall into his hands as he mumbles, “My feelings are…conflicting, to say the least. Well, I am definitely jealous of him. There’s something about his music that is so powerful and moving. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, and I would like to be able to play as good as him one day. But what’s more is that I miss him. And I know it sounds insane, we’ve only met once so we don’t even have any sort of relationship, but I wish I could just see him again one more time, to ask him what his secret is, how he can make music so godly and effortlessly. I wish I could hear his music and singing just one more time because maybe then I could finally have enough of him and can just _forget_.”

Nerdanel starts to walk ahead of him slowly, head bowed, and he follows, allows a moment of silence to fall between them. Finally, she raises her head and looks forward, tells him,

“I know this is going to sound silly to you but…that’s exactly how I felt when I met your father. There was just something about him that sort of drew me to him. And whenever we were apart, I always had this deep, almost painful sense of longing overcome me, and would miss him terribly. Now, I’m not saying you’re in love with Daeron, but I think you hold him in a very high esteem, and believe him to be very special, and since you performed together, you feel sort of connected to him in a way you can’t explain.”

Maglor takes a moment to let her words sink in, then nods slowly in agreement and gives her a small smile.

“I think you’re definitely on to something, mother. Thank you for this. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

Nerdanel touches a hand to his shoulder the way she had earlier and offers him a smile back, her amber eyes warm and bright.

“Anytime, Makalaurë. Also, I just want you to know, it’s ok to be in a rut, and all artists experience them sometimes. But you need to stop comparing yourself to Daeron. He is definitely a remarkable musician, but he’s not _you_. He can never take your place, nor can he ever replicate your style of music. All those people who had come to your concerts attended because they wanted to hear _you,_ not somebody else. Do you want to know how many people have asked your father about when you would come back around to perform again at a party, or hold another concert?”

Maglor bites his lip, asks,

“How many?”

“Quite a few. At least twenty or thirty or so, your father said he was beginning to lose count.”

At this he beams, a warm feeling like hope rekindling and spreading through his chest.

“Also, if you would like to further pursue music,”, his mother lastly mentions, “there are plenty of instructors in Tirion who would be happy to teach you, so maybe it’s in your best interest to seek them out. I love you, Makalaurë, and believe in you from the bottom of my heart. You’re talented and the people love you too, and I’m not just saying that because I’m your mother. I’m not saying you should plan anything too soon, and I don’t want you to be rash, but I really do hope you hold another concert someday. I miss them, and I know I’m not the only one who does. That’s just something to think about.”

Maglor pulls his mother into an embrace, thanks her immensely, and does just that over the next couple of weeks: _thinks_ about it.

After such a long hiatus, he finally decides to hold another concert again.

 

 ***

 

Maglor holds a concert in a way he never has before. Usually he will also be playing a harp, but today he just wants his voice and his words to speak to everyone. He is going to sing a solo without any instruments. The idea is terrifying to him, but he wants the audience to focus on the lyricism alone, and to not be distracted by an accompanying melody. The song is unlike his usual dramatic and seductive serenades; instead he chooses to sing about feeling empty and alone. When the time for his performance arrives, he makes sure to project all of his emotional turmoil into his voice, allows months of his musical stagnancy and sadness and anger to bleed into the tone of it.  It’s not one of his best performances, and certainly not one of his worst, but when the last lyric eases out of his throat and tapers into a soft ending, he can’t help but feel prouder than he’s ever been in his whole life.  The crowd gives him a thunderous applause as usual, but he is surprised to see many wiping at their eyes or blowing their noses in a handkerchief. He feels himself crack a grin when he sees Maedhros sobbing into his hands in a seat not too far away from him. He eventually descends the stage, headed in no direction in particular when he sees a figure clad in dull, taupe coloured Telerin robes.

Daeron.

The all too familiar flash of glossy dark hair and glint of icy eyes render Maglor speechless, mouth dry and hands shaking. His heart is thundering so hard and so fast he is scared he may faint.  Before a second thought can cross his mind he bolts towards the musician and reaches forward to grab his wrist and pull him closer, holds it in a tight grip because he is so terrified that if he doesn’t hold on Daeron will disappear for months again. He licks his lips, raises his eyes to meet Daeron’s, sees that he seems to be a bit startled.

“You’re here.”

Daeron is silent for a moment, his gaze boring into his, before he finally nods slowly and shuffles his feet, as if with unease.

“There is something I would like to ask of you.”

Maglor sucks in a breath.

“What would that be?”

Daeron seems to be the nervous one, Maglor thinks, despite the fact he feels sweat dripping down his own back and his heart is racing a mile per minute. After a moment, Daeron tells him,

“I understand that this may be a lot to ask of you, to say the least. But I have not met a better candidate in Beleriand or anywhere else for that matter, so please hear me out. For a while now, I have been searching for a new and upcoming musician to take on as a prodigy of sorts. Someone that I can teach to follow in my footsteps. Maybe it sounds absurd, but I’ve made my decision and I want it to be you. Tinfang has suggested others, but I honestly don’t want anyone else, especially when I hear you play. You’re unbelievably talented for your age, Lord Makalaurë, and I cannot even begin to imagine trying to teach someone else. Basically, I’m asking you to come to stay with me in Doriath for an undetermined amount of time. It could maybe be a year, or maybe two or three, I’m still not quite sure. But you would be able to have a teacher to guide you and help improve your skills and greatly expand your musical career. I know this is short notice, but we would have to leave tonight. If you are content with your Tirion concerts and your life here, or are just happy with the level you are at now, that’s ok too. Just know that you have the potential to do greater things, and that I am always wishing you the best. So…what do you say?”

Maglor bites his lip, knows he doesn’t even have to begin contemplating the decision, knows he has wanted this for _forever_. He throws his arms around Daeron’s neck, and, trying to ignore the steadily growing lump in his throat, tells him,

“ _Yes_.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope this turned out ok and is somewhat enjoyable! feedback is always appreciated and i'd love to know what yall think! :)


End file.
